


Duel Faced Composition

by Unwoundclock



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anti-hero!Matt, Blood, Criminal Mastermind!Foggy, Deaf!Foggy, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unwoundclock/pseuds/Unwoundclock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Franklin Nelson is a notorious blackmarket criminal, with millions of (il)legal dollars backing him. The Daredevil happens to get him out of a complicated situation. Franklin can't help but be a little smitten in the way only a true criminal mastermind can be. <strong>Dark!AU</strong><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Duel Faced Composition

* * *

> _“The police seemed to think I killed her, which is crazy, because I loved her like a thousand drops of blood dripping down a dagger.”_  
>  ― Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

Matt has pretty eyes. That's what everybody says.

Aunts, uncles, grandparents etc. They have always paused and then said, hushed, "what beautiful eyes, Matthew" and then dithered off into their own personalized follow-ups. Of course they had to pick the one thing Matt was insecure about—the one thing he couldn't fix, couldn't perfect. Couldn't be proud of. Couldn't see.

Matt couldn't.

Acquaintances and even friends danced around the big _you're blind_  spiel. The literal unseen elephant that took up space between all their said and unsaid words. That one perceived weakness in the put-together, painstakingly controlled figure that was Matthew Murdock. Good guy, religion-bearing, friendly neighborhood defense attorney. Who just so happened to have a daily regime of apprehending the worst kind of people and beating them half-dead partially for justice, partially for personal amusement. And oh, was it amusing. That dark, devilish part of Matt's mind knew what it liked. It liked blood, it liked action, it like screamed sins and nightmares too real to brush off as dreams. Matt would be lying if he said that he didn't enjoy it, and lying was a sin. Not one of the sins Matt allowed. The truth was that he did like that _snap_ of bones, that crisp _crack_. God, yeah. Good Matt wasn't a facade, it was just one side of his duel-faced composition.

Devil Matt only got to come out at night, when everyone else was as blind in the dark as he was in daylight. At night he wasn't weak, he wasn't someone that had to be pitied. He was feared and respected in a sad-scary way. The kind of awe children have over a physically abusive and alcoholic parent. Okay, Matt had to reconsider his metaphors, but it was something along those lines. Except he followed a code. He was justice. The right side of the scale. The balance and order, doing what the actual justice system didn't. The whole killing people aspect might have thrown some people off, shown him in a bad light, but Matt didn't mind because _he_  knew that what _he_ was doing was right.

He knew because it was a higher power that motivated him. _Thank you, God_ , he silently prayed and lifted his head, fist curling around a knife on the flat top of his desk. He played it with his fingers, finger pads idling up the sharp ridges. Those jags had been run through more men than he could count. Women too. Matt didn't discriminate. By law everyone was equal. Just skin and blood and guts. Matt slipped the knife into his boot and left his apartment, feeling the faint breeze against his skin. He felt every hair on his arm shift, hyper-aware of the change in environment.

Hell's Kitchen wasn't the worst place for a blind person live, Matt reasoned, considering the dull and rather unsightly views. It could even be considered an advantage. The city was nothing but gray, corporate-owned skyscrapers and traffic jams the length of war graveyards. Matt tugged his Daredevil mask over his mouth and exhaled the smell of smog and metal. He heard the innumerable wails and _honks_  and _beeps_ and _swooshes_  of cars heading in and out of the city. The yells of an angry CEO in the building next to his apartment. The flicker of a bird's wings somewhere above him, below a low-flying plane. the chatter of someone on their smart phone, complaining about their boss and new designer. The _thump thump_  of around 500 thousand hearts, every person in the city. Faintly beating all around him.

Matt took a breath and concentrated on sorting out the important sounds.

Angry swearing, distressed crying, the sound of a revolver going off. There was always something interesting going on in Hell's Kitchen. His Kitchen. The Devil's kitchen. Matt smirked viciously (victoriously) when off on the other side of town he heard the steps of a well-acquainted friend of his. The word "friend" being used extremely liberally as 1) Matt had no friends and 2) Matt wanted nothing more that evening than to gauge this guy's insides out and cut every single rib out of his chest. One by one. With a blunt pocket knife. He jumped off his apartment's stair platform onto the street, dodging public view via a lesser-used channel of small and dark city alleys. The use of which was unadvised to the standard pedestrian, as pickpocketing and blatant murder was not uncommon in the unsupervised corners of Hell's Kitchen. The streets were slick under his heavy-platform army boots and the air was one cold rush against his body as he moved. The familiar, chased gait—those uneven steps—became louder and clearer. Closer. The guy Matt was after appeared to be camping out in an abandoned apartment complex. One of the many abandoned buildings that side of the city. It was unassuming, one large square of gray cement. Matt edged towards the door of the building, testing if it was locked before quietly pushing the door inwards. The main floor was vacant of people, but Matt heard three—no, four—heart beats on the floor above him. He also heard that annoying gait again. Just too slow on the down of his right leg. Matt took a breath and then ascended the stairs, slinking along the edges of the wall, fingers itching to reach down and pull his knife from inside the rim of his shoe.

His breath quickened, pulse rocketing as he crept towards the criminals—his soon-to-be newest victims of justice. Matt glanced around the edge of the door frame and saw three men with large guns standing around a—frankly—annoyed looking gentleman tied to a chair. Matt would have dwelled on that longer had it not been for one of the men starting a violent-looking argument.

"I asked whe' the fock is our stash?" A tall guy yelled with an Irish accent, threatening a gun to the side of the captured man's head. The barrel knocked against the guy's forehead. No response, just another irritated glare. That guy in the chair had balls, obviously. Matt could respect that, and so he decided to help. Matt took in another deep, readying breath and then shot into the room, already aware of where every person in the room was standing and what he would do to knock them unconscious (or worse, as he was feeling especially excited that night). He flipped the first guy that had been idling around the scene and he landed on the metal ground with a satisfying _clang_  so Matt barreled into the guy with the gun and they wrestled over it while the third goon hesitated by their captured victim. With the extra force a pull back gave him, Matt brought down the gun's handle on his opponent's chest, instantly shattering most of his ribcage. Okay, down one. The fallen thug had gotten up by this point and drew out a knife. Too easy. The guy was not inexperienced, but all Matt had to do was wait until he extended his arm and then snap it as he ducked to the side. A sweat-inducing yell. Two down. Matt turned to the third, and last, goon and without much opposition managed to throw him out of the two-story window. Three down, and that's a wrap.

Matt listened to their heartbeats for a moment, making sure that all of them were unconscious, and then began his task of freeing the captured guy in the chair.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he untied the knots behind the chair. No response. Maybe the guy was in shock. That would explain the silence. Matt put on his softest voice (which, coming from the Daredevil, was potentially even more shocking) and kneeled in front of the guy.

"Hey there, you doing okay? Does anything hurt? It's okay, the bad guys are gone." Matt said quietly, nodding in a way he hopped was reassuring.

"I'm deaf, not in kindergarten, you asshat. I don't know what you're saying because of your, honestly, cliche mask, but I'm assuming it's something along some belittling lines" was not what Matt was expecting. The level of mono-tone, humorous sarcasm coming from the guy tied to a chair was mind blowing. It stopped Matt for a second before he rolled up the bottom of his mask and replied, "well I'm blind, so excuse the mask. I obviously couldn't see it when I bought it, could I?"

The guy's eyes watched Matt's mouth and then laughed a little at the end of Matt's sentence, surprisingly. "Yeah, I guess you couldn't. Also, your mask is inside-out. Oh, I'm Foggy Nelson by the way. Thanks for, you know, saving me."

"I'm Ma—uh, the Daredevil." Matt corrected quickly, avoiding Foggy's faint scoff as he continued to untie him. _Is my mask really on the wrong way?_  The rope came loose and Foggy stood up a little too quickly, stumbling around the chair until he found his balance a few seconds later. "Wow, what an interesting night. I mean, honestly, that was the coolest thing that's happened to me in months. I'm not even being sarcastic and that actually makes tonight kind of sad. Great, now I just made myself sad. Thanks brain."

That's when Matt learned that Foggy talked a lot. Most of it was in-between talking to himself and talking to someone else. Matt wasn't entirely sure what to make of it, but he decided that he should ask what had happened.

"Sorry, can I ask why they tied you up?" Matt interrupted as Foggy was going on about something therapist related. Foggy stopped when Matt started speaking and stared at his lips. Matt would have to get used to that too. "I don't think I should tell you," Foggy said, a new seriousness in his voice. It sounded completely void of that humorous lilt that was there just seconds before. It caught Matt off-guard, which was a pretty uncommon occurrence in itself.

It was then that Matt realized that he hadn't sensed Foggy flinch at all when the gun was held to his head, and he hadn't been startled over the subsequent fight that had taken place afterwards. Matt wondered what Foggy's cheerful, rambling disposition held beneath it. What it hid. He was about to ask more questions when he heard a car pull up on the curb outside of the hotel. He stilled, listening for the tell-tale _clink_  of guns brushing against each other. Foggy looked out the window and smiled again, bouncing back into his previous good-naturedness, "oh, well. It looks like my ride is here. I should probably go. Not that it hasn't been nice meeting you or anything, it's just that"—Foggy's voice dropped again—"I have a lot going on."

Matt wondered if Foggy knew what his voice was doing. All those drops and pitches and quirky characteristics that were absent from regular conversation. Matt also wondered why his cheeks were so damn hot. They weren't hot from the usual blood, sweat, spit trio either. Troubling. Everything about this guy, Foggy Nelson, was troubling.

Two men dressed in black suits dashed into the room, both of them carrying handguns. "Sir, are you alright? The premises is secured." One of them pointed the barrel of their gun at Matt, "red or green?" Foggy seemed to consider for a second and then amiably said "green." The gun was quickly lowered and the two men walked behind Foggy, standing upright on either side of him. Matt tried not to feel awkward standing in the middle of three knocked-out men and wondered how he was fairing.

"Well, what a wonderful evening. Although I am a little upset over the kidnapping, fun as it was." Both of the men on Foggy's sides flinched minutely. Just enough so that Matt could feel the jerky shutter in the floor's vibrations. "Yes sir." Both of the men said in unison. _Who the Hell is Foggy Nelson?_  Matt tried to sort through his memory, tried to think of a place where this new character fit in. Nothing. It was like Foggy Nelson didn't exist in Hell's Kitchen. At least, not in the way the other drug lords and criminal masterminds did. Matt decided to ask.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need to know why these thugs took you here. If you're part of the underground scene then I can't let you go."

A laugh.

"Rest assured that I'm not a typical drug lord or petty slave trader. That's not my playground. I play upstairs, with the big boys. I pay taxes with clean bills. Oh, that reminds me—" Matt heard paper ruffling and then the quiet _thud_  of something landing at his feet. He cautiously picked the thrown object up and felt the soft paper of bills under his finger pads. "That's for tonight," Foggy said, igniting a cigarette with a _flick_  of his thumb on a metal lighter. Matt's fist curled around the money in disgust, his Catholic conscious returning with daylight. "I'm not a charity. Fling your damned money at someone else." He dropped the bills on the ground, the metal clamp slipping off and letting all of the bills fly in a scattered array of green and black. He heard the bones in Foggy's jawline _click_.

"Admirable, but stupid."

"Am I? If you do what I assume you do, then you already know how greed often leads to a person's demise."

Another half-laugh. Then he heard the steady steps of Foggy walking towards him. Everything inside of him wanted to flinch away but Matt stood still, waiting until Foggy was a foot away. Then half a foot. Then closer. "You know, I admire that," Foggy said in that confusing, lighthearted way, "I wonder what your face looks like. Want to get a good look at your eyes." At that, Matt did flinch. He backed into the wall and then skittered to the right, darting from the room as fast as he could. Behind him he heard gunshots. His shoulder stung. He tried to breathe but it felt like his lungs didn't contain air. Couldn't. He felt his heart stutter up against the top of his ribcage. Cold sweat.

The faint, unsettlingly soft whisper of Foggy's smoke-tainted breath against his ear haunted him all the back to his apartment.

"Arg, stupid!" Matt yelled as soon as he closed the door to his flat, teeth clenching as his hands curled into fists. "Matt, what the fuck were you thinking? Why did you run? Dammit!" He seethed for a few lingering seconds before the anger left him, allowing him to slump into his couch, exhausted. He checked himself for injuries (just a few knife lesions and a bullet graze on his side), practically splashed anti-infective over his stomach, and then closed his eyes. After a minute, Matt realized—with horror—that the smell of Foggy's cigarette smoke still lingered on his suit, so Matt shucked that off and fell asleep with nothing but his briefs on.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, Matt promptly shoved the Daredevil suit into his washing machine and got ready for work. He pulled on a dress shirt and tie, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and ate a well-balanced and nutritious breakfast. He did all of this perfectly, meticulously. He agonized over every detail, from the brand of cavity-warding toothpaste he bought to the calories in his oatmeal. At exactly 8:00 AM he slipped from his apartment and walked the short distance to the law firm he worked at, walking stick feeling out the path in front of him. He felt out perfect squares in front of him. He did this because he _had_ to be perfect. Had to, otherwise he was the weakest chain, the poor player in the game of life.

"Good job on that arson case, Murdock," his boss said as he walked in and Matt smiled modestly. Really, he was thinking _of course I did a good job._  He wouldn't be Matt Murdock if he hadn't. He sat down at his desk and sorted through his papers before turning to his computer. The desktop flickered to life and Matt suddenly remembered _Foggy Nelson_. He typed the name into a search bar and frowned in confusion when nothing relevant showed up. Nothing about a Foggy Nelson, not even a phone number or confirmation of life. _Maybe he gave me a fake name. The name 'Foggy' does sound pretty fake_ , Matt reasoned as he clicked out of the tab and got to work on his actual case files.

* * *

That night wasn't the first time a mob of thugs tried to kill him in his own apartment, but it was potentially the one with the highest death count.

The door had been knocked down around 3 AM and Matt had already been waiting for them, knife locked in his sweaty hand. The minutes following the intrusion were both confusing and bloody. Gory in the way only mass murder was. Blood flew everywhere and half of the thugs forgot who they were fighting around the five minute mark. Matt, for his part, was slashing at everything that came at him, catching skin and bones with the short but sharp edge of his knife. He's pretty sure he swallowed blood at some point and felt sick at the thought. By the time there were only two intruders left, Matt was barely standing on his feet, swaying dangerously towards the wall.

He managed to stab one in the base of their throat and the other in the center of their chest. A red stain formed around the knife wound and Matt promptly vomited off the side of his balcony. _Charming_ , he chided himself and then stumbled back into his apartment, tripping over the various dead and unconscious bodies that littered the floor. He washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, then picked up his pre-packed bag (for quick escapes and house moving) and walked out the apartment complex. He called the police, just so that his real name wouldn't get tarnished ("H-Hello, my Name is Matt Murdock and the Daredevil just murdered a lot of guys in my apartment"). He was about a block away from the scene when a red limo pulled up on the curb of the street and a tainted window rolled down.

"Hey, Devil Guy," a familiar voice called from inside, causing Matt to stop dead in his tracks and slowly turn his head around. Foggy fucking Nelson. Of course it wasn't coincidence that he met the guy and was then was almost gang murdered a few days later. Great. The talking continued, "it looks like you made it out alive, which isn't really ideal, but okay. You must be pret-ty cool to take on like thirty of my guys." Matt laughed, a lot more pissed-off than happy, "maybe your guys just suck at fighting." That got another laugh and Foggy leaned out the window, "wow, someone's in a bad mood. How about a drive? This car's pretty sweet. All leather. You know, the kind that can't get wet."

Matt rolled his eyes and then snapped, "you just tried to assassinate me. I'm not getting into your creepy car with an equally creepy you."

"Okay, 'tried' is the keyword there. You're alive! Also, you're talking a little fast, but I think you said that you want to get into my creepy car with me."

Matt was a hair's width away from loosing his cool. Just one tiny hair from going completely through the roof. He gritted, "I'm not getting in your car."

Foggy raised an eyebrow, "You aren't moving your lips very well. Are you saying that you're getting in my car?"

"No! Goddammit, just leave me the fuck alone!" Matt yelled and then turned on the heel of his shoe, stalking away. To his horror, Matt heard the car door open and Foggy run after him. _Holy shit,_  Matt wondered if he had the guts to punch a multi-millionaire in public. _Probably._  The only problem was that he wasn't in his Daredevil suit. He felt a tug at the sleeve of his shirt and snatched his arm away from the man following him.

"What the Hell do you want from me?" Matt yelled angrily and was understandably upset that the volume of his words was lost on Foggy's deaf ears. Matt thought he was prepared for anything, but apparently he wasn't. He wasn't prepared for the sheepish, shy-sounding, "well, I was thinking coffee?"

Matt paused. A long time.

"Coffee." He echoed distantly. "Yeah, I mean, I'm sure you're a busy man and all, but I was thinking that maybe—when you're free, of course—we could go to that nice cafe on Main Street. You know, the one with the red canopy and the outside seating." Foggy elaborated.

Matt nodded slowly and then, bluntly, said "you're insane." That was the only logical solution Matt's brain could conjure up. Foggy laughed, a bright, overjoyed sound that only furthered Matt's hypothesis. "Not as insane as one might think," Foggy said once his laughter pattered off and then prompted, "so, coffee?"

Matt snorted, "yeah right. Not a chance."

"Oh come on, the assassination thing was just to test you. Since you passed, I'm not going to try to kill you again! That would just be wasting good quality thugs. I'm not stupid." Foggy drawled out the word 'stupid' and the smile was evident in his voice. "Besides, you're super hot without your stupid inside-out mask. Like model hot. I feel bad that one of my guys landed a hit on your eye. Oh, speaking of eyes," Matt heard Foggy walk in front of him, promptly cutting him off and pissing Matt off more. "The shades are a good choice because your eyes are the ugliest color I've ever seen."

That managed to stop Matt mid-step, despite him thinking that nothing would be able to do that ever again. _What a backhanded compliment._  Matt made a face, "excuse me?" Foggy honest-to-God _giggled_ , "oh, so your eyes are a bit of a sore spot, aren't they? Interesting." Matt promptly pushed the millionaire out of his way and continued walking. "Friday, 7 PM. I'll pick you up," Foggy called as Matt walked faster down the street.

There was no way in Hell he was going on a date with that insane (yet strangely intelligent) man, Foggy Nelson. It wasn't going to happen.

* * *

By some round-about series of events, the date happened.

That's why Matt was sitting in a velvet-cushioned chair as he stared at a plate of something that smelled and tasted (he tasted it in the air, it was that rich) way above his yearly paycheck. 365 days of work on one plate. That was as mind-boggling as it was humbling. His hands, legs, and shoulders were tied to the back of his chair in some play of irony, so he wasn't sure how he was supposed to eat, but that wasn't exactly his top priority at the moment. Foggy Nelson, apparently mastermind criminal, was sitting across from him. His motives were unknown, which just set Matt more on edge.

"Sorry about you being tied up. It's a safety measure, I'm sure you understand." Foggy said but Matt was concentrating on the fast-heavy _thump thump thud_  of Foggy's heart. It was a unusual heartbeat. Slow, slow, fast. Matt sighed. "Can you just tell me why I'm really here? My hands are tied, so it's obviously not to eat."

Foggy didn't say anything for a second and then commented, "you're pretty smart, I like that. You're not boring like everyone else is. Plus—you probably don't know this—you look great when you're covered in blood. Not going to lie, the first time we met I thought it couldn't get better than that but, lemme tell you, casual bloody you is better than spandex bloody you." Matt made a confused sound and Foggy laughed, "I know, right? It's so counter-intuitive."

"No, I mean, you actually just like how I look? That's why I'm tied to a chair?"

Foggy sounded offended, "I'm not _that_  shallow, Murdock. I said you were smart too, jeez. Compliment fisher."

Matt wanted to drive his fist into something. Hard. Preferably something that looked like Foggy. Preferably Foggy himself. The tied hands thing had probably been a smart move on Foggy's part.

"So I'm just going to sit here and listen to you eat then?" Matt snapped. Foggy considered this accusation for a moment and then said, "yeah, I guess. I don't really have anything else planned. We could kiss though. I could fit that into my extremely busy and important schedule."

"No thanks." Matt said quickly, Bible sessions coming back to him. Foggy laughed, "what, you religious or something?" Matt said nothing. Foggy was quiet for around ten heavenly seconds.

"Oh, huh. Well that's unexpected. Not really a turn off per se but still pretty weird."

"Shut up, please."

"Sorry, is my interest in you making you uncomfortable? You're just _such_  a good little God-abiding follower, aren't you. Killing people isn't a sin at all—"

"I _said_  shut up!" Matt seethed and that earned him another laugh. "Or what? You going to punch me with your tied hands? Yell at me? Curse me with God's eternal wrath? Curses are a Catholic thing, right?" Matt clenched his teeth together and said nothing.

Foggy continued in his light, humorous way, "are you trying to get me to stop talking because you're secretly attracted to my voice—the whole package, actually—but don't want to admit to a sin? You're hiding your sacrilegious thoughts from yourself. That's kind of romantic. Very Bible-esque." Matt sputtered, "that's nothing like the Bible—no, I'm not attracted to your voice. If anything, I find it annoying. You never stop talking."

Foggy stood up from his chair and walked over to Matt's side. "I think you're getting a little too defensive. I'm a pretty good criminal, you know. I can tell when people are lying. It's easy because I lie a lot too. I get that same little twitch in my eye. Right there." Foggy's index finger traced the edges of Matt's eyelid. It closed on instinct. "You know, I've already lied to you. I lied about your eyes. I said they were ugly. They aren't." The index finger pulled up Matt's eyelid and Foggy examined Matt's eyes, seemingly ignorant that this was not common practice. Matt made a start of protest but couldn't do anything as Foggy did as he liked. His eyes started to water from the dryness. "Your eyes are actually very pretty. I'm not sure why you're so ashamed of them, Murdock."

Foggy drew back. "That's a bit off-topic though. Long explanation summarized: I know that you lied about not liking my voice."

"Prove it." Matt challenged in a bout of rebellion.

"I thought you'd never ask," Foggy approved in a pitch too dark, too sly. Pure oil. Smooth.

Foggy walked behind Matt and bent down so that his lips were parallel to Matt's ear. His breath was still soft and warm against Matt's skin. A sweet-heavy brand of rum laced his breath. "You know, Murdock's a pretty nice name. It sounds sophisticated." The vibrations of Foggy's voice sent shivers through Matt's body. So close. Too close. Too many nerves went off at once; too much. He swallowed. The heat increased as Foggy lined his entire body against the back of Matt's chair. Hot, hot.

Foggy switched ears. "Matthew Murdock. Defense lawyer. Fitting, I suppose. I found you pretty easily. Single, fit, moral to a fault. You do look like such an upstanding citizen. We both know better though, don't we. I know that you like the blood as much as I do, like the bitter sting. You're not abiding your religion; you're satisfying your demon." Matt drew in a sharp breath as Foggy's nails barely grazed the back of his neck. Matt was practically shaking. One of the drawbacks of his superior senses was how sensitive he was. Not in a quiet way either. No, he was sensitive in a violent, body-seizing way. Foggy's nail went up the curve behind his ear and Matt jerked in the chair, tilting it forward before it rocked back down. Foggy made a faux surprised noise, "you're pretty perceptive, aren't you? God, you're shivering like crazy. You're still not admitting anything?"

"There's nothing t-to admit," Matt stuttered through gritted teeth. "Sure," was Foggy's nonchalant response. "You know, you'd be more convincing if"—Foggy's pressed two fingers against Matt's pulse—"your heart wasn't beating like it was going into arrest." Matt flushed for some unexplainable reason at the feel of the fingers digging into the soft skin on his neck and that hot voice on the back of his neck. Foggy dropped his fingers away and leaned back in. "You know, you should talk more. I'm a professional when it comes to lip reading. Your lips are really quite nice to watch. The way your teeth catch your bottom lip is quite fascinating too. Anxious habit?" Matt glared in his general direction and stopped biting his lip in useless protest.

"I don't see why you're so against something so exciting. I bet we'd have great chemistry. You know, the whole hate thing we've got going on. Add in the blood lust and we make the world's kinkiest felons."

"You're pretty persistent," Matt commented, mostly because he didn't know what else to say. The whole situation was pretty much surreal at this point.

"Damn right I am. That's me, Foggy Persistent Nelson."

"That's lame," slipped off Matt's tongue. Foggy laughed again, light and free (breath right against his skin), "yeah, okay, that was kind of bad. I'll think of something better. It's hard being so charming all the time."

"I bet."

"Oh, so you admit it?" Foggy asked, hair falling across Matt's shoulder. God, it smelled like oranges and vanilla. Really good. Sweet. Out of place. Matt dazed out for a second. "Uh-Uhm, sorry?"

"It looks like you're distracted. Something bothering you?" Matt shook his head, hard. A hand ran up the side of the chair but it almost felt like it was on Matt instead. "You know, you look kind of feverish. You're face is so _red_." Red, the color of blood. Adrenaline. Adoration. Foggy's hand slid over Matt's forehead. "Man, you're burning up. Flu's big this time of year." The hand slipped lower, to the edges of Matt's mouth. They rubbed through the wetness there.

In Matt's overstimulated world, this was pure sex.

A finger bumped against Matt's teeth and he jerked again, this time pushing the chair backwards. Foggy let out a poorly disguised snicker and the finger slipped into Matt's mouth. It was warm and salty against his tongue. _Too much, too much._  "Bite down and I call the guards," Foggy said, hushed, in Matt's ear. His other hand trailed down the vertebrae of Matt's back. One, two, three. Matt huffed a breath as the fingers slid under the leather of his belt. "I bet I could get you off without even touching you." Foggy said, a happy spin to his voice. Seductive and juvenile and low. "You're already so turned on. I'm not blind. I can see the state of your pants. Oh, No offense." Matt laughed sarcastically but was cut off when Foggy stood so that he was facing Matt. "You look so nice like this. Just really hot." Foggy climbed onto Matt's lap, straddling his knees.

Oh. Oh fuck. That caused all of sorts of new feelings. Physically. Matt bit down a moan as Foggy purposefully shifted in his lap. The smallest movement was mind frying. His own jeans rubbing against his legs was maddening. Matt's hands clenched in fists. Scary. "Wait—Wait. Uh, too much. Too much." Matt gasped, twisting painfully against his ties. The admission sounded small and pathetic in his ears. "Too much."

Foggy went still, "you can handle gunshots but not a little grinding?" There was a mocking cadence to Foggy's voice but Matt couldn't concentrate on it. Couldn't concentrate on anything. His skin was prickling. On fire. Painful. Like he was climbing a cliff and falling off its rocky side. He felt a wetness in his eyes. He felt like he jittering out of his skin. A whimper slipped from between his teeth. High and hurt.

"Holy shit, you're overstimulated," Foggy realized, watching the twitch of Matt's jaw like it was TV. "Okay, you have to admit that that's pretty hot. Dang. Did you? Oh." Foggy must have looked down because he went quiet again and Matt felt another flush stain his face. He wanted to jump off a skyscraper. He waited for the mocking to happen but the words never came. Instead Foggy mumbled something along the lines of "fuck, fuck, God" and jacked off in front of him. Matt couldn't see it but the slick sounds of the action filled his ears. The salty taste of sweat and arousal stained the air. Foggy came about a minute after that, shuddering as he clutched the chair. That shouldn't have been as hot as it was. The hitches of breath and quiet gasps. The _click_  of teeth and the subtle sound of eyelashes trembling against skin. The tightened grip, thin knuckles. The pain lining Matt's skin was slowly replaced with the warmth of pleasure. Euphoria was soft to come but hit hard, both soothing and frightening as it washed over Matt. He shook through the last moments of it and then fell limp against the back of the chair.

"That was...That was something." Foggy said, sounding as dazed as Matt felt. He caught his breath. "We should totally do that again." In his slightly better humor, Matt considered this proposal for a few seconds before he slipped his hands from the now loose rope and pushed Foggy off of him. "Wha—Whoa," Foggy breathed before Matt was on him, pinning him to the ground.

"Guards," Foggy reminded him and Matt just pushed their lips together, making sure their lips and teeth clashed on every slick brush. "Ow," Foggy seethed as Matt sunk his teeth into his lip, pushing until a sharp tang of blood—salty, bitter, perfect—met his tongue. He lapped it, wiping it on his teeth. On Foggy's.

It was true. He did like blood.

 _Vengeance,_  Matt told himself, _this is just vengeance. An eye for an eye._ He felt embarrassed, debased. That's the only reason why he was pushing against the man beneath him, shuddering through the gentle brushes, the mere touch of fingers. Matt wanted to ruin him. It was such an appealing thought. Here was a genius, most likely, at his whim underneath his hands. Chocking distance away from his fist. Sure there were guards, but Matt was the _Daredevil._  He did what he wanted.

He wanted something red. Something beautiful against his skin.

"I'll fucking murder you," Matt whispered like he was flirting in Foggy's ear. By the way Foggy moaned under him, it might as well have been. "Do it. I dare you. I'll just kill you back so it's a fair deal," the man breathed with a grin so wide Matt could _feel_  it etched into the back of his eyes. Into his mind. A challenge had just presented itself and Matt was never shy, never backed down once a goal lit itself in his mind.

Knife, knife. Matt felt around the inside of his coat before he drew it out. The blade glinted silver in the dinning room chandelier light. Foggy's body went still when he caught sight of it, though the small shiver that ran up his spine didn't escape Matt. He held it in front of the other man, turning it back and forth in the palm of his hand.

"You know it's not smart to make deals with the devil. Or maybe you're just dying to ransom off you soul. I wouldn't be able to stand hosting something so filthy inside of me either, Mr.Franklin Nelson.

An insightful hum came from Matt's victim, "I see you found some things out yourself. I love it when relationships are mutual. Respect is the key."

"You could say that. I was so respectful of you that I shoved one of your thugs' head inside of a kitchen blender until they complied and spilled some interesting information. Apparently he liked his hair. Though head would be more likely."

"Oh. Is that so." Foggy said a little blandly, contemplative, as though Matt's words had collectively soiled his previously upbeat mood. Perhaps they had, if the slight downturn of his Foggy's mouth was any indication. Matt traced a finger over the formed folds on the man's forehead. "Yes, in fact, I've been meaning to ask you about your little laundering business. Little being used purely for dismissive purposes, of course. With your skills you could have just made all the money yourself. It's almost a little disappointing."

There was the sound of a tongue clicking in annoyance, "as if you're in any position to lecture. I think I'm the lesser of us two sins. As I said, I pay clean. I just know how to bend laws a little and use generally innocuous loopholes in unintended...creative ways."

"You should have become a lawyer. You sound made for it. The perfect money-greedy scumbag."

Foggy's shoulders rose and fell, "what are you, my high school consular? I thought you were on your blood thirsty way towards killing me. Way to let me down." Matt brought the knife down inches from Foggy's throat, stabbing it into the expensive Persian carpet. It went a little deeper than Matt expected and he wondered if he'd be able to get it back out again. "Sorry, but I think I'll just leave you to the police."

"No you won't." Foggy said immediately with authority. "I know who you are, Matthew Murdock. We both have enough dirt of the other to start a garbage business. No one's ratting on anyone. We'll part ways and that will be it. I won't come after you as long as you don't come after me. It seems pretty fair.

Matt considered this for a second. "I don't trust you."

"You're smart not to." Foggy grinned and Matt sighed before letting the criminal up. "If I catch wind of you doing something illigal I won't hesitate to stop you, you know." Foggy rolled his shoulder.

"I'll make sure you won't catch me."

and that sounded like a challenge if Matt had ever heard one.


End file.
